


The Perfect Catch

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mpreg, Schmoop, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1869513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Most Eligible Bachelor in Wizarding Britain!</i> the headline of <i>Witch Weekly</i> proclaims. Harry Potter is the perfect catch for some lucky woman, which means Draco can't possibly be the one. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Catch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidheann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidheann/gifts).



> SOMEONE was a bit road-blocked on fic, and I promised I would write 100 words for every hour she finished before her self-imposed due date. She came in 34 hours early, and I wrote 4300 words. *grins* So maybe I reversed a couple of digits. ANYWAY, the prompt was:
> 
> H/D, some surprising news, a meal/mealtime, (fl)angst // extras: a magazine, flowers, the Malfoy Crest
> 
> My dear, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Harry Potter, I just like to write about them.

Of course _Witch Weekly_ would be the one magazine available while Draco waits in the examination room at St. Mungo’s. Several copies, in fact, all with Harry Potter smiling on the cover, flushing attractively and waving at the young women just beyond the barricade as he walks by.

_Most Eligible Bachelor in Wizarding Britain!_ the headline proclaims. The article claims that he’s the perfect catch for any young woman between the ages of eighteen and thirty, and encourages marriage-minded mothers to take that extra step and be sure to catch him quickly, before he’s snapped up.

Draco could repeat the article word for word by now; he’d already read it three times before ever arriving in the emergency room. He doesn’t need to read it again to add to the twisting sensation in his gut.

“Draco Malfoy.” A cheery voice rings out before the curtains are drawn aside and Luna Lovegood steps through. Her wand and quill are both acting as pins in her hair, keeping the wild blonde curls from tumbling down around her face. “How lovely to see you. I’d ask if you’re quite well, but you’re here, so I doubt you are. But I do think you’re much better than you think. You’ve a glow, and are those Weeblers? That’s terribly impressive you know; they don’t like men as a rule.”

He has no idea what she’s nattering on about, and really, of all people he could see here, Lovegood is _not_ who he had hoped to find. “Where’s Nott?” he mutters.

“Up to his elbows in attempting to transfigure a small child back from the potential for remaining a feline until he turns thirteen,” Lovegood says easily. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make due with me, but that’s likely for the best, all things considered. Those Weeblers are _awfully_ attached to you. Are you feeling any nausea? Pain? Tenderness?” She blinks at him. “Are you particularly irritable of late?”

“At this exact moment, _yes_.” Draco doesn’t want to deal with Lovegood’s ridiculous prattle. “If you could stop nattering on and diagnose my illness, I’ll be on my way and take my Weeblers—whatever the fuck _those_ might be—with me.”

“Oh yes, they’ll be staying with you. For about seven and a half months, I’d say.” She has her wand in hand, flicking it across Draco’s chest, his pelvis, finding unerringly the spot where the twinges have been occurring. “The nausea ought to wear off in a few more weeks, I’d think. With the amount of Weeblers present, I think you’ll be having a very easy pregnancy.”

“I… what?” For once Draco is without a scathing remark. “Lovegood…” What she claims is not _impossible_ , but it is _highly_ improbable. There are few wizards able to conceive, and even those must generally use potions and spells to aid in conception. Unplanned male pregnancy is almost unheard of.

She touches his arm, fingers as gentle and soft as her smile. “Would you like to see? I knew the moment that I saw the Weeblers, but I’m certain you’d prefer a more traditional method of confirmation. Look.” She raises her wand and Draco can’t follow the path of the motion, but when it’s done, a sphere hovers over his abdomen and he can see what seems to be a small bean inside. “That’s your child. It’s still quite small, but your womb is well-formed and the child is healthy. You’ll want to see a pre-natal healer soon, and set up your regular appointments. In the meantime,” she pauses, summoning a small crystal marble from a drawer. When she touches wand tip to marble, the image disappears into it, leaving it smoky. She holds it out.

“Have your lover place this in his palm, and he’ll be able to see what we just saw. It’s a lovely way to inform your partner.” She summons a notepad and sends a memo zipping away shortly. “They’ll have pre-natal potions ready for you when you reach the desk to sign out. Make certain to take them every day. While there have been no side-effects, you are still at a much higher risk than a woman would be, and we must do everything we can to ensure a healthy pregnancy for both you and your child.”

She touches him _again_ and he is so startled that he doesn’t move, simply lets her pet his shoulder in a manner that he assumes she means to be comforting. “Congratulations, Draco. I do think you’ll be a lovely father. I hope you and your partner will be pleased.”

He glances at the magazine that sits on the nearby chair and tries not to choke. “Of course,” he manages to say, lying through his teeth. There is no way that he plans to tell his _partner_ , as there is nothing between them save a few brilliant nights, and much of the wizarding world is already planning to trap him into marriage. Draco will not be just another person pining after Harry Potter, and he will _not_ expect something for this.

Draco will find a way to handle this on his own. After all, it’s not as if they’re _dating_. He doubts Potter would even want to know.

#

Draco walks out of St. Mungo’s in a daze, his cloak wrapped around him as if it might hide him from reality. He moves through the streets until he spots a dark corner and ducks in, twists in place and appears just outside of the Malfoy wards. He didn’t plan to come here, but he realizes that there is nowhere else he could be right now. He needs to tell _someone_ and the only one who might listen without judgment is his mother.

Pansy has been telling him for months that he’s mad for tilting after Harry Potter, even though it has made Draco’s temper tolerable of late. Blaise is worse, refusing to acknowledge the dates as anything with potential and ignoring Draco’s desires, instead periodically offering him dates with other eligible, more _suitable_ , young men. Theo’s response was a simple _it won’t last_ and to ask if Draco would like him to deal with Potter properly once it was done.

He has no support from his friends; he has to hope his family will be better.

The wards part for him, welcoming him back into the Manor, a house elf appearing as soon as he steps in the door. “Will young Master Malfoy be wishing refreshment?”

“Hello, Derry, and just tea, I think.” The thought of anything more turns his stomach, and has for weeks. “Is my mother in the solarium?”

“Yes, Mistress is with her flowers. Should Derry be bringing your tea there?”

“Yes.” Draco sheds his cloak, giving it to the elf before he makes his way through the house. It feels strange to him, as if he can feel the wards around him, picking at his body. He wonders if it is because they are trying to feel the life he carries inside of him, because they know he brings something that is not entirely Malfoy into this home.

“Draco!” His mother greets him at the door, pulling him and enfolding him in a hug. “What an unexpected pleasure. Give me one moment and I shall have Derry bring up—”

“Tea,” Draco interrupts before she can possibly suggest biscuits or scones. “Derry is already bringing tea. Do you think we might just sit and talk for a bit?”

“Of course, my dear. I always have time for you.”

They arrange themselves on the chairs, Draco taking the high wingback chair that has been his since he was small enough to curl up in it and hide with a book, and his mother taking her accustomed seat. There is a heady scent of flowers in the room, her plants all in bloom, and the odor turns his stomach more than he would have expected. He tries to breathe through his mouth but the scent is still strong, and he prays he is not turning green.

They exchange idle chatter—the weather, the state of Draco’s job, inquiries into his life outside of work. His mother leads the way into the conversation Draco needs to have and is still avoiding with her gentle question of, “Is there anyone special in your life, my dear? I know that your life is… complicated.” Her tone is gentle as she says the word, her way of alluding to his sexuality. “But surely there is someone that you have met by now.”

“There is someone,” Draco admits slowly. “I do not know how special he is, however.”

He sees the light of interest in her pale eyes, the way she leans forward. “Oh?”

“We met six months ago.” The who does not matter in this story; he does not want her disapproval, not yet. “It was one night, but it was particularly brilliant. It wasn’t meant to be anything.” He can feel the warmth in his cheeks as he admits this, that he has sought single nights of pleasure. This isn’t the kind of conversation one should have with one’s mother, but he needs her to understand. “He took me to dinner a week later.”

“And?” Her smile is soft and gentle, and he thinks that perhaps she understands that need to find affection where one can. However one can. Even though she has had his father for so long, he knows that Narcissa is the affectionate one of his parents, and that she cannot go long without his father by her side.

He purses his lips thinly. “It isn’t a relationship,” he says quietly. “He dates other people, I know this. But we see each other every few weeks, and it is brilliant every time.” _I could love him._ The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he refuses to say them. If he doesn’t put it into words, it won’t mean anything.

“Are you certain that it is nothing?” She covers his hand with her own, squeezing lightly. “After all, it has been six months and you still return to each other. Take a chance on love.”

He laughs then, because she has no idea yet. “I can’t, Mother. It’s too late. You see—I’m pregnant, and I won’t trap him with me that way.”

Her eyes go bright and wide, her mouth open and silent. He has struck her speechless, and he can’t stand to see the disappointment rise. Draco drops his gaze. “I’m sorry. I haven’t yet decided what to do. I came here straight from St. Mungo’s.”

“I can’t remember the last time I heard of an unplanned pregnancy between male partners,” she murmurs. “It is a rare event, something to be treasured.”

His head snaps up, gaze meeting hers. “Did you hear the part where we are not in a relationship?” he snaps. “I _will not_ tell him and trap him like this, Mother. I expect _nothing_ from him. Ours is not the sort of… whatever it is… that invites children into the mix easily.”

“You cannot give up on a miracle,” she says plainly, looking to the side as Derry pops in with a tray of tea. His mother busies herself pouring a glass for both herself and Draco, offering it to him before Derry leaves once more.

“I have no intention of giving up on the child,” Draco admits quietly. “But I do not think I can do this alone, either.”

“You know you are always welcome here, should you need your family.” She raises one finger, stopping him before he can speak. “I will deal with your father; he always takes news better when it comes from me. And should you feel the need to move back into the Manor, we shall accommodate you.”

It is more than he had hoped for, and even without his father’s agreement, he is certain that his mother will bring him around. He nods slowly. “I need to find a healer. I was diagnosed in the emergency ward by Luna Lovegood.”

“I’ve heard that she’s actually quite good with swift and accurate diagnoses,” his mother muses. “You could do worse, but if her time is spent with emergency we shall find you someone that will be devoted specifically to pre-natal care and delivery. Leave it to me, and I will send you information when I have set your appointments.”

He feels weight drop from his shoulders abruptly as she takes his care into her hands. He knows he can trust her, and that he is no longer alone in this. In an ideal world, this would be a wanted pregnancy, a strongly desired event and he would have a husband by his side to welcome this child into the world. But that isn’t going to happen, not with half the women in the wizarding world angling for Harry Potter’s hand in marriage. Draco knows that their dalliance is only a matter of time. “Thank you.”

She tops off his tea, warming it before handing the cup to him. As she looks at him over the edge of her own cup, she smiles. “You don’t need to do everything alone, Draco, dear. I know you wish to be independent, but you have more support than you know. I am very certain that everything will turn out well.”

He looks at the world stretching out in front of him—a lover who will disappear as soon as he knows the truth, friends who will be uninterested as soon as he is fat with child. He snorts unhappily. “You are an optimist, Mother.”

“Someone in this family ought to be.” She rings a bell to summon Derry. “I can guess how you must be feeling. Let me have Derry bring you something you ought to be able to eat without difficulty, and we will spend the rest of the afternoon catching up.”

#

It’s two more weeks before an owl arrives for Draco with a place and a time and signed simply with _H_. He sets it aside, refusing to consider the possibility that he wants to go, then an hour later spends yet another hour trying to decide exactly which robes bring out his eyes best, and flatter his figure. Once he’s dressed, he sits quietly on the couch, absolutely convinced that he _will not_ leave his apartment, yet somehow at almost half-seven, he’s standing outside Rosalita’s, looking in at the crowd.

He won’t go in.

He _can’t_ go in.

He has to end this, right here and right now. 

After all, in another month, maybe less, it will become obvious that he is pregnant, and Harry will be trapped, whether he wishes to be or not. Draco won’t allow that to happen. He should just walk away.

Or perhaps he should let Harry down easily. Explain that he’s seen the article, and the pictures in the _Prophet_ as Harry has stepped out with one young lady or another. Draco _understands_ the pressures of society, and he recognizes that the Boy Who Lived could not possibly be seen with the Boy Who Is Marked.

But in order to let him down easily, he has to go inside and sit with him. _See_ him.

Really, it would be much simpler if he walks away right now. Harry will understand, won’t he?

“Draco!”

He freezes at the sound of Harry’s voice, the quick steps approaching him. By the time he turns, Draco has a polite smile on his face for a greeting. “Harry,” he says.

“I thought I was running late, but it looks like I wasn’t the only one.” Harry grins, touching Draco’s back as he pulls open the door to Rosalita’s. “I had to make a last minute stop on the way here, and it took longer than I thought. But…” He waits until they are both inside before he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a box and opening it to show a flower the color of flames. The side petals look like wings, and the one at the back is like the crown of a dragon, matching the head, which tilts forward, breathing a soft huff of ‘smoke’. 

“Drákos orchidéa,” Harry says. “The dragon orchid. It’s rare, but when I heard that Neville would be having some come into bloom this week, I knew it would be perfect with your robes.” He pulls it out and carefully pins it in place, his fingers brushing against Draco’s cheek. Harry stops once it’s done, his hand resting on Draco’s shoulder. “I was right,” he says softly.

Draco flushes, and he blames the twist in his gut on the child he carries rather than the warmth Harry brings to him. “It’s beautiful.” He fights for calm, to keep his throat from going tight, and he has to blink against a suspicious and irritating damp that arises in his eyes. “We should go sit.”

And Draco needs to tell Harry that this is it, this is the end.

He should let them have appetizers first, perhaps. 

After all, Harry insists on the pumpkin dip with crudites, which is one of Draco’s favorites on the menu. It sounds awkward, like a mad crash of flavours, and the first time they were in Rosalita’s he almost refused to try it. But there is something about the sweet, spicy combination with the crisp vegetables that explodes in perfect synergy on his tongue.

It is also the first thing that has truly appealed to his stomach in days, and he silently congratulates his passenger on his show of good taste. It bodes well for how they might get along once the wee thing is out of his womb.

His womb.

Oh dear Merlin, he has a _womb_.

He knows this, of course. In the past two weeks, Draco has read everything he can find on the subject of male pregnancy and the accommodations the body makes for the child. But although he has _read_ it, he hasn’t entirely processed it as it applies to himself. It strikes him, rather abruptly, that the churning sensation that sent him to the hospital in the first place was his own internal organs rearranging themselves to make space for this unexpected child.

Miracle, his mother said.

Draco blinks back fresh moisture from his eyes.

“Draco?”

He looks up, still blinking. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Do you want wine with dinner?” Harry has a soft smile, like he’s aware that Draco’s miles away and he’s more than fine with it. Draco wonders for a brief moment if everyone does this, if Harry’s just so used to people using him for his name that he doesn’t expect attention.

Draco shakes his head once. “Not tonight.” He sees the surprised look, and offers a moue of disappointment, passing it off as a potential poor interaction with potions he’s taking for his stomach. Harry orders himself a glass of white—he’s learned to pick a proper vintage in the last few years—and suggests sparkling juice for Draco. It’s easier to accept when Harry gives him that hopeful look than to say that he’d rather drink piss, so sparkling juice it will be.

“Draco.” Harry reaches across the table, touches his hand. “Are you all right?”

Draco manages to smile thinly. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’m sorry if I’m making dinner terrible for you tonight. You should know by now that I’m not exactly the best of—” He means to say _company_ , but he doesn’t get the chance.

“Don’t.” Harry places a finger against his lips. “Not one word against yourself. I’ve heard it before, and I’ve heard it from others, and I don’t care that you’re cantankerous, crochety, sour, snarky, and enjoy exchanging insults as foreplay. In fact, that last is arousing, so we’re not going to indulge in a public place. I happen to enjoy your company, when I can manage to find time for it, and I look forward to our time together.”

The words spill out in a rush, like Harry is trying to say them before Draco can interrupt. But Draco has no words in response, not right away. He should say something, but he discards all the options that tip his tongue, like _why_ can Harry barely find time for him, and _why_ does he look forward to it, and _why_ is he here instead of out with one of those women tilting after him like Don Juan after a windmill.

Harry swallows hard and pushes back his chair, and Draco thinks _this is it, he’s going to leave_. He’s about to stand as well when Harry sinks down onto one knee, and Draco just _stops_.

“What?” Draco asks.

Harry pulls something out of his pocket and opens a tiny box. The ring inside rests on a green silk background, and Draco sees the Malfoy crest etched into the fine and very old gold.

“This was your great grandfather’s ring,” Harry says quietly. “I spoke to your mother because I don’t want you to think that this makes you less of a Malfoy. Your heritage is a part of you—a huge, important part—and I wanted to make sure you knew I knew that. It has a match that she’s holding onto still, because if you say yes, we’ll have it altered, so that I can wear it. But you’ll need to put that one on me, for our bond.”

They are all very pretty words, and Draco thinks he knows what Harry is saying, but that’s _impossible_. “You’ve seen my mother?” Draco pushes back, because _no_ , she wouldn’t have. She _couldn’t_ have interfered like that. “She said everything would be fine. She _made_ you do this. You don’t have to. I don’t expect anything out of you. I just… you shouldn’t…”

Harry’s brow furrows deeply. “No one’s making me do anything, Draco. I talked to your mum weeks ago, and asked her not to say anything to you.” He’s still on his knee, one hand outstretched towards Draco, who remains just out of reach. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I know that we haven’t been dating long, and that it hasn’t been a proper courtship like you’d probably prefer. And it’s a surprise, and maybe you don’t feel the same way about me, in which case, just… say no. But there is no one I’d rather be with, Draco. And my work schedule has been killing me, because it means I can’t spend time with you, and if marrying you and guaranteeing that you’ll be there, every day, no matter what is one way to have that time, I’ll take it. If I’m stuck coming home late at night for the next year, I want to crawl into bed knowing that you’re already there. I want to wake up to you warming cold feet on my shins. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Draco, so _yes_ , I’m asking you to marry me.”

“I’m pregnant.” He doesn’t mean to say it, but Draco can’t help himself.

Harry’s eyes go wide. “That’s possible?”

Draco nods slowly. “It’s not easy for men, and generally isn’t a surprise. I didn’t try to trap you.” He has to say that, has to explain that he doesn’t want Harry to feel _obliged_.

“Draco, I want children. I’d figured we’d adopt, but if we can have our own, that’s _brilliant_.” Harry comes to his feet, takes a step forward, the ring box still held between them. “Is that what you meant by me _having_ to marry you? I didn’t know, Draco. If you think your mum told me, she didn’t. I haven’t seen her in three weeks, not since I picked up the ring. I was just trying to find enough time off in one evening that we could go out and I could ask properly. This isn’t the kind of thing I wanted to do over a quick lunch.”

There’s a pop and a flash, and Draco realizes that there are cameras here. “They’re taking pictures of the Saviour proposing to the Traitor,” he says quietly.

“Let them. Hopefully they’re also taking pictures of Draco Malfoy saying yes to Harry Potter.”

It doesn’t seem quite real as Draco extends his left hand, waits while Harry slips the ring over his finger and it resizes itself to fit comfortably. It feels heavy and real, and warm from Harry’s touch, and Draco arches one eyebrow. “You do know this means we must stop by the Manor to retrieve the other ring. I won’t be wearing your mark without you wearing mine as well.”

“I understand.” Harry drops the box on the table, closing the distance between him to frame Draco’s face and tug him close for a kiss. “And after that,” he murmurs, “we’ll go to yours or mine—whichever you prefer—and we are going to spend the night together. We’ll figure out everything else soon enough. I’ve been saving my time off so we’ll be able to have a proper holiday after the ceremony.”

“You’ve got everything planned out.”

Harry grins. “Why do you think the _Prophet’s_ been going mad with news that I might be proposing. There’s no lucky girl, Draco. There’s only you.”

Draco sniffs. “Of course there’s no one like me.” As if he could have ever doubted this, that any of those women might hold a candle to his charms. “You might be the wizarding world’s most eligible bachelor, but I am the perfect catch.”

Harry laughs, the sound muffled by his lips against Draco’s. “Yes, you are. Shall we get out of here, now?”

Draco looks at the ring on his finger, the Malfoy crest visible and making him think _family_. “Yes,” he whispers, stealing one more kiss. “Take me home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I write both Teen Wolf and Harry Potter, and I talk about anything that crosses my mind. Feel free to come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


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